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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25796254">Spitting Venom</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock'>there_must_be_a_lock</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Coffee &amp; Psychopaths [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Related, Canon Rewrite, Doctor Who References, Gen, The Dorkiest Softest Male Friendship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:49:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,327</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25796254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Strap in, folks, we’ve got a weird one,” Garcia says cheerily, handing Spencer a paper folder as everybody else opens their tablets. </p><p>“I thought the Winchesters were dead,” Hotch says. </p><p>“That is part of the aforementioned weird, yes. Okay, for those of you who weren’t paying attention four years ago…” </p><p>Spencer opens his file, and Garcia’s words stop making sense, because that’s Sam in the mugshot. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spencer Reid &amp; Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Coffee &amp; Psychopaths [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871419</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>430</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Spitting Venom</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is for @stunudo and her “Lie To Me” Challenge on Tumblr. My prompt was the Modest Mouse song “Spitting Venom.” </p><p>This centers around (and steals dialogue from) the events of “Slash Fiction” (SPN) and “Proof” (CM). In order to smoosh the timelines together right, I had to do some wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff, so don’t think about it too hard. </p><p>You should be able to tell from context clues, but for reference, the flashbacks (in order of appearance) correspond to “Shut Up, Dr Phil” (SPN) / “It Takes A Village” (CM), “To Hell... And Back” (CM), “My Bloody Valentine” (SPN), “Amplification” (CM), “With Friends Like These” (CM) / “Unforgiven” (SPN), “Appointment In Samarra” (SPN), and “Memoriam” (CM). Seriously, wibbly-wobbly. So much canon juggling. Just go with it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><div class=""><p> </p>
<p></p><div class=""><p>
      <strong>“Just for the record, the weather today is partly suspicious with chances of betrayal.” </strong>
    </p></div><div class=""><p>
      <strong>― Chuck Palahniuk</strong>
    </p><p> </p></div><div class=""><p>
      <strong>-</strong>
    </p><p> </p></div><div class=""><p>“Strap in, folks, we’ve got a weird one,” Garcia says cheerily, handing Spencer a paper folder as everybody else opens their tablets. </p></div><div class=""><p>“I thought the Winchesters were dead,” Hotch says. </p></div><div class=""><p>“That is part of the aforementioned weird, yes. Okay, for those of you who weren’t paying attention four years ago…” </p></div><div class=""><p>Spencer opens his file, and Garcia’s words stop making sense, because that’s <em>Sam</em> in the mugshot. </p></div><div class=""><p>His first instinct is to shout, <em>This is a mistake</em>. </p></div></div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer’s stomach churns. He’s cold all over. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>This feeling (<em>betrayal</em>, his brain supplies helpfully) is becoming a little too familiar, lately. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Garcia is showing a video: a bank, a group of people scared and screaming, two men opening fire. That’s Sam. His expression is stone-cold, maybe even satisfied, as he empties the clip into the crowd. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That’s <em>Sam</em>. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Garcia’s talking about M.O. now, or the total lack of a consistent one, and Spencer can’t listen. He forces his features into the bland, neutral expression that has made people underestimate him for years, and he takes slow breaths, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Spence?” he hears, and when he looks around the table he realizes that it wasn’t the first time somebody said his name. They’re all staring. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You okay, kid?” Morgan asks, brow furrowed. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m fine,” Spencer insists, with a shrug. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No you’re not, I know that face. Are you feeling okay?” Emily prods, and Spencer hates her for a moment, hates that she can still read him. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He tries to force a smile, but it feels stiff on his face. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know him,” Spencer blurts out. “Sam. Sam Winchester. He’s… he was my friend. Or I thought he was.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s a moment of stunned silence all around the table. Spencer looks down at his hands, twirling a pen idly, instead of looking any of them in the eyes. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Reid,” Hotch says quietly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“We met at a… meeting,” Spencer says. He looks up at Hotch to make sure he understands, and Hotch nods. “About two years ago. He was only here for a couple weeks. We got along, though. We… he left. We kept in touch.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“When did you last speak to him?” Hotch asks, frowning. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer swallows around the lump in his throat. It’s taking his best effort to maintain his mask of composure. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It was eight days ago.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Hotch nods. “I’m assuming he’s already using a new number, but just in case, we’ll need you to give Garcia any contact information you have.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer tries to smile. “Of course.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Emily asks, “And he didn’t say anything that would…” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That would, what, tip me off that he was planning a massive murder spree?” Spencer says. His voice cracks.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Anything that might be helpful,” Morgan interjects diplomatically. “Locations, names.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer shakes his head. “No, it was… we didn’t talk about that sort of thing. It was random, mostly. When something was on my mind that I couldn’t… couldn’t talk to you about, or - when I couldn’t sleep. But there wasn’t much small talk.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And you never suspected?” Garcia asks, wide-eyed. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Do you really think that if I <em>suspected</em> -”  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“We know that if there were any hints, you would’ve seen them. Nobody is suggesting that you should’ve known,” Hotch says firmly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I <em>should’ve</em>, though,” Spencer insists, with a hysterical edge in his voice. “There were so many things that he just… avoided talking about. He looked familiar, even! I kept wondering where I recognized him from!” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Enough, kid,” Rossi interrupts. “Getting angry at yourself doesn’t help anybody. It was before you joined the Bureau, there was no reason for you to remember his face.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“This is a good thing, right?” Emily points out. “The better you know him, the easier it’s going to be for us to catch him.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Apparently I <em>didn’t</em> know him, though,” Spencer says hoarsely. “I didn’t know him at all.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Are you going to be able to work this case objectively?” Hotch asks. “We’ll all understand if you want to sit this one out.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer stares at him helplessly. He’s not sure he knows the answer to that question.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I remember Gideon talking about the Winchester case,” Rossi muses. “Couldn’t make head or tail of it, no apparent connection between victims, witnesses who kept changing their stories…” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Your insight will undoubtedly be useful,” Hotch adds quietly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer grits his teeth, shock turning quickly to anger. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I want to find him,” he says. He wants to know. He wants to hear the confession. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Hotch gives him one more steely, appraising look before nodding. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Very well. Let’s talk victimology.” </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>September 2011 (eight days earlier) </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>“I don’t understand how she could do that,” Spencer says bitterly. “If I saw one of my friends hurting like that, and I knew something that would stop them hurting…” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Shit,” Sam mutters. “I’m sorry.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Did they not trust me to keep the secret? Did they not think I could handle it? We’re a team. We’re not supposed to keep things from each other. Not important things, not like that.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah, I hear you.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam leans against the kitchen counter, watching Dean through the window. Baby’s hood is open and Dean’s wrestling with something inside, and Sam wonders, for the thousandth time, whether he’s imagining the wariness in Dean’s face whenever they talk these days. He can’t shake the feeling there’s something Dean’s not saying. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I don’t know what to do,” Spencer says quietly, and his voice cracks on the last word.  </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>“I don’t know if there’s anything you </em> <strong> <em>can</em> </strong> <em> do, except give it time.”</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I hate that answer,” Spencer says flatly, and Sam laughs. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah. But… I think hearing the truth is the hard part, sometimes. Or saying it. Right? It hurts like hell, and it’s going to hurt for a while, but now that it’s all out in the open… now it’ll start getting better. It has to.”  </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I guess.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“She thought she was doing the right thing,” Sam repeats. “Do you really think she’d do that, if she didn’t feel like she had a choice?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Spencer sighs in a rush of static. “No,” he says begrudgingly. “But </em> <strong> <em>I </em> </strong> <em>think she had a choice. And now it’s my choice whether to trust her or not.” </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“You’ll get there.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“How do you know?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“A very smart man once told me that’s what friends do,” Sam says wryly. “They trust each other.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Quoting me back to me doesn’t seem fair,” Spencer grumbles. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Doesn’t make it wrong,” Sam retorts with a grin. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam watches Dean slam the hood shut, and he wonders why his brother has such a hard time trusting him. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class=""><p> </p>
<hr/></div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>“Are you kidding me right now?” Dean snaps, and the sneer in his voice makes Sam feel all of six years old again. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No, Dean, I’m not kidding,” Sam says stubbornly. He leans against the doorframe and watches Dean pace back and forth, like a wild animal on a too-short leash in the tiny living room of Rufus’s cabin. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>Dead or alive</em>, Sam. We’re wanted dead or alive. You try to talk to a Fed, which one d’you think it’ll be? They’ll have you pumped full of bullets before you can blink.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He’s got a point, Sam,” Bobby says quietly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam rubs his eyes, feeling a headache building. “I trust him.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah? Well, I don’t,” Dean retorts. “Who the hell is this guy, anyway? When’d you make a friend I don’t know about?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Is that what this is about?” Sam asks bitterly. “You’re pissed there’s something about me that you don’t get to control?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“In case you hadn’t noticed, you don’t have a great track record here,” Dean spits, and Sam’s throat clogs with anger even before Dean says, “Whenever you’ve made a friend on your own, how’s that gone for you, huh? Meg, Ruby, Amy… two demons, a monster, and now a fucking Fed?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam balls his hands into fists to fight the urge to start swinging. “Why can’t you just trust me? You don’t know Frank, either.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I trust <em>Bobby</em>,” Dean says. The<em> I don’t trust you </em>goes unspoken. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam clenches his jaw, breathing until he knows he can talk without shouting. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Just go, then, Dean,” he says, quiet and venomous. “Go ahead. Do whatever you want. I’m going to call Spencer.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean’s frozen for a moment, stone-faced. Then he whirls around and heads for the door. “Fine. I’ll check in when I get to Frank’s.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam sits down on the couch, resting his head in his hands for a moment. He hears the dim rumble of the engine starting outside. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m gonna use the landline, if that’s okay,” Sam says quietly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I sure hope you’re right about this, boy,” Bobby growls. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“So do I.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He finds Spencer’s number on the worn slip of paper in his wallet, written down with the five or so others that he doesn’t want to lose, and holds his breath as he dials. He has a feeling Spencer might not pick up on the first try, if he picks up at all. For all he knows, Spencer’s on the job already, in Colorado with his team looking for clues that aren’t there. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He closes his eyes and thinks, <em>please</em>, and then Spencer picks up.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hi, Sam.” His voice is icy. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey,” Sam says. There’s a long, weighted pause before he continues, “It’s not me.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’re kidding me, right?” It’s clipped and robotic and forceful. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No, look, I - it’s not me, okay? That’s why I’m calling. I’ll turn myself in.” Another weighted pause. Sam clears his throat. “Not to the police, ‘cause I’m pretty sure they’ll shoot me on sight, but. To you. It’s hard to explain, but I’m innocent, it’s someone else pretending to be me, so if you can get to Montana -” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Montana?” Spencer interrupts incredulously. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Montana,” Sam repeats. He hesitates. “I figured you’d be tracking the call, I used a landline to make it easy for you.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“She’s working on it,” Spencer admits begrudgingly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam feels a twist of guilt, wondering how Spencer’s coworkers are reacting to this… even worse than Dean, probably. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He hears a faint female voice in the background, too quiet to make out more than, “...not sure how, but…” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Fine, then,” Spencer says quietly. “Montana.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Wherever you want, okay? I - I won’t put up a fight. Just…” Sam can’t help but laugh. “Don’t let them shoot me, okay?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s a crackle of static as Spencer sighs. “We’ll call you with details when we land.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A voice in the back of his head that sounds like Dean is shouting,<em> this is a terrible idea. </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam ignores it. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I trust you,” he says. “And Spencer?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Mmhmm?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Thanks for picking up.” </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>May 2010</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>Spencer feels like he’s choking on the thick stink in the air. He looks around the packed dirt yard of the farmhouse and can’t find any relief; he’s surrounded by ugly raw grief, and he can’t stand it. Emily is consoling the crying girl. Hotch is talking to the locals, tying up loose ends. Morgan is staring numbly at the rows and rows of muddy shoes on the ground.  </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>He knows he’s not the only one dealing with the weight of what they saw today. He should find Penelope, give her a hug, face this together, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Sharing this would make it a little too real.  </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Maybe it’s all the practice he’s had at being alone; his first instinct is to hide, when things start to get overwhelming, and to maintain a certain level of clinical detachment until he can make sense of what he’s feeling. He can dissect his own feelings. When his friends are hurting, though… that’s a different story. When he sees his friends hurting, he hurts too, hurts in a way that chokes him, hurts in a way that crowds everything else out, and all he wants to do is fix it. Even when it’s not something that can be fixed. It’s illogical. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Love doesn’t leave any room for logic, he’s learning. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>He slips away, into the barn. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Dust motes and chaff drift in the scattered beams of light that cut through the empty space, swirling around him as he climbs the ladder to the dark drafty loft. Spencer sits down on the floor in front of the wall of drawings. He hugs his knees to his chest and looks, committing the clumsy crayon strokes to memory, because it doesn’t seem right to let all those empty shoes live on without also remembering this: bright color, crushing loneliness, constant fear. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>The loneliness is too much, after a few minutes. He pulls out his phone and closes his eyes. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Hey, Sam,” he says. His voice cracks and wobbles. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Hey. What’s up?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I’m just not having a great day,” Spencer says, aiming for casual, falling short. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“You wanna talk about it?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Not really,” Spencer says. His voice is thin and scratchy and small in the darkness of the barn, lost immediately in the blanketing silence. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam hesitates, and Spencer waits, hoping he’ll understand. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“If you could have one object from a fictional universe, what would you want? Has to fit in your pocket.”</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Spencer lets out a grateful little huff of a sigh. “Obviously the -” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“TARDIS doesn’t count,” Sam interrupts, laughing. “It has to be portable in its normal everyday form, not just temporarily shrinkable.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Sonic screwdriver, then. Obviously.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Right? That’s what I said.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“What else would there be?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Dean would go with a lightsaber,” Sam says, and Spencer can practically hear him rolling his eyes. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>It’s the first time Spencer’s really smiled all day. “Based on what you’ve told me about your brother, that doesn’t actually surprise me.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah. That’s Dean…” </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>There’s a dial tone. Spencer closes his phone and tries to breathe. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Do you believe him?” Hotch asks quietly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer looks down at his hands, twirling his pen again, feeling claustrophobic with all their concerned gazes pinning him in place. There’s too much going on in his head, too many things trapped and buzzing inside him with nowhere to go, and he wants to start running but all he can do is shrug. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don’t know,” he says, voice strained. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Even if he is telling the truth, there are parts of this case that just don’t make any sense,” Morgan says. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>JJ adds, “If it’s a ruse, it’s a bizarre one.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Gut feeling, kid,” Rossi says softly. “Are we walking into a trap?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer wants to scream. Instead he says, “I don’t think he’d hurt me, but…” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“If you trust him, that’s good enough for us,” Emily says fiercely. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer can’t help it; he looks at JJ before staring stubbornly down at the table again. The words burn on their way out: “This wouldn’t be the first time I trusted the wrong person, though.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“We need to make sure we’re prepared for all eventualities, but I think it’s worth the risk,” Hotch says. “We can discuss it more on the jet. Wheels up in thirty.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer refuses to meet any of their eyes as he gathers up his folder and his bag. He gets out of the conference room before anyone can try to talk to him. His cheeks are burning, and his hands are shaking, and he’s already jittery but he <em>really</em> needs coffee; beyond that singular thought, his brain is stuck between stations, all white noise and useless static. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The coffee pot in the break room is empty. He’s glad; it’s good to have something to do with his hands, a ritual, a tiny piece of his life that he can still count on. Filter, measure grounds, fresh water… </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Spence.” It’s JJ, of course, and Spencer’s first petulant instinct is to ignore her. “Spence. Look, we gotta talk about this.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“About what? The fact that one of the few people I still trusted turns out to be a serial killer?” Spencer says sharply. “It’s becoming a pattern, me trusting the wrong people. I’m getting used to it.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You know what I mean.” Her voice is low and soothing, like she’s talking to a victim’s family. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I don't want to talk about it.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I get it, okay?” she says, still in that calm, professional voice. Spencer wishes she’d scream instead. He wants to scream. “You're disappointed with the way we handled Emily.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, focusing on the steady drip of coffee into the pot. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Listen, I have a lot going on, all right?” he says coolly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You know what I think it is?” He doesn’t look at her, but she continues anyway: “You're mad that Hotch and I controlled our micro-expressions at the hospital and you weren't able to detect our deception.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It <em>hurts</em>. Her words bite down somewhere deep, venomous needle-sharp fangs that sink in and sting, and the toxic ache spreads through his system before he can take a breath. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You think it's about my <em>profiling</em> skills?” he spits back. “Jennifer, listen, the only reason you were able to manage my perceptions is because I trusted you. I came to your house for ten weeks in a row crying over losing a friend, and not <em>once</em> did you have the decency to tell me the truth.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Her expression is hurt, confused, and she says quietly, “I couldn't.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You couldn't? Or you wouldn't?” he snaps. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No, I couldn't,” she insists. Her eyes are brimming with tears now, and Spencer feels a sick rush of satisfaction. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He knows it’s cruel, but he lashes out anyway: “What if I started taking Dilaudid again? Would you have let me?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She recoils. “You didn't.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah, but I thought about it.” It’s petty and it’s unfair and it’s vicious, and he doesn’t care, not even a little bit. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It stuns her into silence for a moment, and he turns to pour coffee into his travel cup, hands shaking so badly he almost spills. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Spence,” she whispers. “I'm sorry.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He whirls on her, almost shouts: “It's too late, all right?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Reid,” she says, but he’s already brushing past her, and he doesn’t stop. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>February 2010 </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>He’ll never forget the look on Dean’s face. He knows it a little too well, by now: disappointment, disgust. I expected better. This isn’t who I raised you to be. You’re not the person I thought you were. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“You know I couldn’t have gotten out of that bathroom on my own,” Sam says. “You know I wouldn’t have - I wouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to.”  </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Dean doesn’t trust him, though. He’s not sure Dean will ever trust him again. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam lets Dean lock him in the panic room. He doesn’t protest; he goes without complaint, head down, like a dog with its tail between its legs as it waits for a kick that never comes. Detox will hurt. It always does. He feels like he deserves that, though. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Dean almost says something, before he closes the door. The words catch on his lips and die on his throat, and he just shakes his head as he slides the deadbolts into place. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I’m sorry,” Sam says, but Dean’s already walking away, and the hallucinations are already creeping in around the edges of his vision: his mother sighing sadly, his younger self shaking his head in contempt. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam sits down, curls up, and looks around at the bare walls and the locked door. The floor is cold under him, and he can already feel the chill sinking into his skin, down to his bones. He leans back against the wall and tries to breathe through the panic. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I’m sorry,” he says, over and over again, but he’s not really sure who he’s talking to any more. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>The hallucinations fade. The bloodstains won’t, not really. Dean will see those forever. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>He can barely look at Sam when he finally unlocks the door. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam’s still itchy and wired, that night, even though the worst of it is over. Dean’s not even trying to pretend he’s doing anything other than keeping watch outside. He’s sitting in the hallway with a bottle of whiskey for company. Sam can’t leave, and he sure as hell can’t sleep, so he calls Spencer, and he doesn’t realize until it starts ringing that it’s two in the morning. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Hi, Sam,” Spencer says, staticky and distant. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Hey.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“You okay?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam sighs, stammers, stops, tries to start again. He doesn’t know what to say. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Not really,” he manages. There’s another long pause before he can admit, “I fucked up. I keep fucking up.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Oh,” Spencer says softly. “Okay.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam exhales. “I didn’t mean to.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I know. I believe you.”</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“You’re the only one who does.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I trust you,” Spencer says. It’s so matter-of-fact, so easy, and it’s been a long time since someone trusted Sam like that. He didn’t realize how much he missed it. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Why?” Sam asks. He tries to laugh, but it comes out wet and choked. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“That’s what friends do, right?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam takes a deep, shaky breath and swallows down the lump in his throat, trying not to wonder if Dean’s still standing guard outside his door.  </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Thanks for picking up,” Sam says, barely a whisper. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Any time.” </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They cuff his hands behind the back of the uncomfortable metal chair. Sam didn’t expect anything less, but he still hates it. They had the entire team except for Spencer there to take him in, and that was a few too many guns trained on him for comfort, but he’s alone now. It’s cold, and the walls are blank, and he shivers. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s spent too much of his life locked in cages of one sort or another. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When Spencer finally opens the door, Sam can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, even as his stomach twists with nerves. He’d worried they would insist on sending someone else in. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey, Spencer,” he says quietly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer doesn’t answer. He avoids eye contact as he sits down, settling in with his posture stiff and his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He looks like a different person from the one Sam first met; the jittery, fidgety, chattering Spencer is gone, and there’s an actual Fed in his place. Even when he meets Sam’s eyes, his expression doesn’t give anything away. He’s ice-cold and completely closed-off. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam tries to breathe. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Where’s Dean?” Spencer asks bluntly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He’s at a friend’s, trying to figure out how to clear our names.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Why isn’t he here with you?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He didn’t think this was a good idea,” Sam says. “We haven’t had great experiences with law enforcement, but… him even more than me. I trust you. He doesn’t.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer’s eyes narrow. “You trust me.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam shrugs helplessly. “That’s what friends do, right?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer’s face goes stormy immediately, and he leans closer, glaring at Sam with startling intensity. “Let’s get one thing straight. You and I are not friends. You’re a <em>murderer</em>, and the only reason I’m here is that I want to see what you look like when you’re telling the truth… because apparently you’ve been lying to me <em>since we met</em>.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s not unexpected, but it still hurts. Sam hesitates for a moment before saying softly, “I’m not a murderer, and I haven’t been lying to you.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There’s video.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s not me.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer stares at him incredulously. “All that stuff you never wanted to talk about. All those times you talked about… being scared of yourself, worrying what you could do. What was that, then?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Sam says. He feels exhausted, suddenly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’ve never even told me what you do for a living!” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I can’t.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How am I supposed to believe you?” Spencer asks. He’s starting to lose his composure, an agitated edge creeping into his voice. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Look, remember when you called me, and told me you might be dying?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How is that relevant?” Spencer hisses. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I figured it out, afterward. Anthrax. Right?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How did you…” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And you told me that you couldn’t give me details, and the details weren’t important anyway.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That’s right.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And I accepted that, because I trust you, and I trust that if you’re not telling me something, it’s for a damn good reason,” Sam says determinedly. “They tried to keep it out of the news, but later, I did some digging, and I figured it out. Why didn’t you alert the public?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer looks utterly baffled. “Because people would panic. There’d be mass hysteria.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There you go. It’s the same thing.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s not the same thing at all,” Spencer exclaims. “I work for the<em>federal government!” </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Look, I know you, okay?” Sam says desperately. “I know that your job is to notice the details that don’t make sense. Even when something seems obvious, you and your team pay attention, and you make sure everything fits, and you figure out the truth, not just whatever bullshit explanation seems easiest.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer nods slowly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That’s why you’re here, and that’s why your team didn’t shoot me on sight,” Sam continues. “And I know you’re good at your job, so I know you’ve noticed that there are things about this case that don’t add up. Okay? Why would I be here talking to you, if I was guilty? Did you ask yourself how I got to Montana so quickly? Did you talk to any of the witnesses from the old cases? Diana Ballard? Rebecca Warren? Did you try to profile us? Find any similarities in m.o. between all those murders? No. None of it made any sense then, and none of it makes any sense now. You know why? Because <em>it wasn’t us</em>,” he finishes.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sam. Maybe there are details from the old cases that don’t make sense, but…” Spencer trails off, shaking his head, like he doesn’t even know where to start. Then he stops himself, sets his jaw, refocuses, and when he looks at Sam again, there’s nothing but pure clear anger in his face. “Look me in the eye, right now, and tell me you’ve never killed anyone.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam instinctively goes to tuck his hair behind his ears, but the cuffs cut the movement short. Spencer sees it. His face falls, bitter and disappointed. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he mutters. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’ve never killed anything that didn’t deserve it,” Sam insists. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Any <em>thing</em>? Really? Or any person?” Spencer asks. Sam doesn’t answer, and Spencer continues, rushing, like he can’t stop the words from coming out: “Do you know how many times I’ve heard a serial killer say that? Everybody thinks they have a reason, Sam, whether angels told him the guy was guilty, or… Satan was possessing them, or… a talking dog told them the meaning of life.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam lets out a borderline hysterical laugh, and Spencer just stares like he’s completely crazy. Sam can’t blame him. He’s starting to feel crazy. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay, here, look,” he says, in a sudden burst of inspiration. “Go through the old case files, look at the dates. Every one, I guarantee you, people were dying before we got to town. There’s gotta be a way to prove it, right? The murders started happening before we got there. Everything you’ve told me about Penelope, I bet she can do it, easy.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What, so now you’re telling me you’re some sort of <em>vigilante</em>?” Spencer half-shouts. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Not exactly, no.” Sam’s starting to run out of ideas. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The door opens abruptly, and a stern-faced agent says, “Reid. A word?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer gives Sam one last look before he gets up. It’s a familiar expression: disgust, disappointment, <em>you’re not the person I thought you were</em>. Then he turns his back, and the door slams shut behind him. Sam can hear the click of the lock. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>April 2010 </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>He writes to her every day, pages and pages of words. He hopes she realizes that they all boil down to “I love you,” because right now, he doesn’t know what else to say.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Hi, Mom, this is Spencer,” he says, “I just… I just really want you to know that I love you. And -” when he blinks away tears he can practically see her, her smile swimmy through the salt water, same as it looked when he was small and crying over a scraped knee, and if he keeps thinking like that he’ll never make it through this message. He pauses, gulps for air, steadies himself. “I need you to know that I spend every day of my life proud to be your son.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>She hasn’t taken care of him since he was small. Right now, though, he feels small and scared, and all he wants is for his mom to tell him that she loves him, and that it’s going to be alright. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Reid?” Penelope whispers, and then he hears Dr. Kimura, and he doesn’t get to be a child right now; there’s nobody there to take care of him. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I gotta go,” he says, and hangs up before Garcia can ask questions. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Doctor Reid?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“You look nice,” he jokes, with a watery laugh, and she smiles. “How are the patients doing?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Let’s worry about you,” she says smoothly. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Spencer forces a smile and shakes his head. “I actually… I feel fine.” It’s one of the most obvious lies he’s ever told. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“If you feel any pain, I could give you something,” she offers. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“No, I’d rather not take any pain medication.” His hands are shaking, but at least his voice sounds strong. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>She looks concerned. “We can at least make you feel more comfortable.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I am comfortable, and I don’t want to take any narcotics,” he says fiercely. It’s not easy to say the words, but he feels better once he does; he feels proud. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>There’s someone else he needs to call, Spencer realizes. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Tell me how I can help,” Dr. Kimura says, and Spencer nods. First things first: if the poison is here, so is the antidote. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I think the cure for this strain is in here somewhere,” he says, ignoring the way his chest aches.  </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Well, shall I start here?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Yes, just… I just need a moment.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Spencer looks down at his phone. He could call Garcia, again, have her save the message as a contingency plan, but he’s not sure he could handle her questions right now, and he can trust Sam not to push for details; he’s always been good about that. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Hey, Spencer.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Hey, so, I can’t explain, but I’m not sure I’m going to make it out of this,” he says, stumbling over the words. “Don’t interrupt, I can’t - I just wanted to say thank you. In case I don’t get to say it again. Recovery was… I don’t… you helped. Thanks for always picking up the phone when I needed you.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Right back at you,” Sam says quietly. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>It’s getting harder to breathe, and the panicked hammering of his heartbeat isn’t helping. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Thanks,” he says again, and closes the phone without saying goodbye. </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>“Reid, you need to calm down,” Hotch says, as soon as the lock clicks behind them. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know,” Spencer says, rubbing his eyes, agitated. “There’s just… there’s so much that doesn’t make <em>sense</em>.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s more than that.” Hotch gives him one of those piercing glares he’s so good at. “You’re allowing your anger with JJ to cloud what you’re seeing in Sam.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer can’t really argue with that. He just nods. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“When this is over, I want you to take a couple days,” Hotch says. “You need some time to process.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer’s instinct is to argue, but one look at Hotch’s face tells him it’s pointless. He nods again, reluctantly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Garcia is checking into the pattern that he talked about,” Hotch says, as he leads Spencer back into the observation room. “She may be able to pin the Winchesters’ locations at the times of the original murders. JJ’s talking to old witnesses. There has to be something Henricksen missed.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Emily, Morgan, and Rossi are clustered in the small, spare room, watching Sam through the one-way glass. Emily cuts herself off mid-sentence as Spencer and Hotch walk in. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You okay, kid?” Morgan asks again, looking at Spencer like he’s a bomb about to go off, and Spencer tries to smile for him. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“All my time in the Bureau, I’ve never seen a case that made less sense,” Rossi comments. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They all look at Sam, who’s frowning down at the table, deep in thought. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer clears his throat and asks, “Do you believe him?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I believe that he’s telling part of the truth,” Hotch says. “It’s what he’s <em>not</em> saying that concerns me.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Inside the interrogation room, Sam starts, eyes wide, and looks from the door to the one-way mirror. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey,” he barks. “Hey, I know you’re listening! It’s St. Louis. I figured out the pattern, and they’re going to St. Louis next.” He tugs at the cuffs, clearly agitated. “Come on. Can anybody hear me?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He’s genuinely distressed,” Emily says, frowning.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“If it’s a delusion, it’s a complex one,” Morgan adds. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The door swings open, and JJ starts talking before any of them can ask: “That was Diana Ballard. She swears up and down that it’s all a big misunderstanding, but she’s not clear on any of the details; she just said that she’d trust the Winchesters with her life. Rebecca Warren said the same. There was someone impersonating the Winchesters, back then, and she swears up and down that someone’s got it out for them now.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How did Henricksen not have that statement in his file?” Morgan asks. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Maybe Sam’s right, as much as I hate to admit it,” Emily says. “Maybe this is a case of agents just wanting the easy explanation.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You guys are gonna want to see this,” Penelope interrupts, hurrying through the door as fast as her hot pink heels will allow, holding out her tablet. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Another one?” JJ asks. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Unfortunately, yes, and it’s a doozy. This just came in from -” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“St. Louis,” Hotch fills in grimly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How did you know?” Penelope asks, but she presses play without waiting for an answer, and they all cluster together to watch the grainy cell phone footage: Sam, leaning in close, giving the camera a smug smile before he opens fire. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Is that really…” Spencer says numbly, looking from the screen to the window, where Sam is tapping his foot, impatient, undeniably solid and real. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s real,” she confirms. “And to top it off, I found a call that the local brass dismissed, but I just talked to him a couple minutes ago and it sounds like the genuine article. A guy thinks he saw the older Winchester just a couple hours after Sam originally called us. He was at a gas station in, you guessed it, Montana.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s a stunned pause, while everybody tries to digest that news, until Emily breaks the silence with a succinct, “What in the ever-loving <em>fuck</em> is happening.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m going to talk to Sam,” Hotch says. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer’s acutely aware of everyones’ eyes on him again as he moves closer to the window. His reflection in the glass looks masklike and composed, but he doesn’t feel anything of the sort. </p>
</div><div class=""><p>He’s kind of starting to believe Sam. That’s his first instinct, at least. Something deep in his gut is telling him to trust, but it’s being strangled by the suspicion and twisted fear that have been poisoning him slowly since Emily came back. Now that it’s in his system, Spencer’s not sure how to flush it out; it’s just <em>in</em> him now, like some sort of chronic infection. </p><p> </p>
<hr/></div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>March 2011</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p><em>“I hate how often we see it,” Spencer says quietly. “It’s the first thing everybody thought of, with this kid, even though it wasn’t </em> <strong> <em>just</em> </strong> <em>schizophrenia, but… what’s the difference, between him and my mom?” </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Your mom has you,” Sam points out. He can hear the murmur of Dean and Bobby’s voices downstairs, constant and comforting. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“The headaches haven’t stopped.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam grimaces. “No answers, still?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“They all say there’s nothing wrong with me, physically.”</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah,” Sam sighs. “That’s… kinda harder, isn’t it?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I hate not knowing,” Spencer fumes. “I hate that there’s no test for it. Even if it was a positive diagnosis, I’d rather have that, you know? I mean, that’d be awful, obviously, but… ” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“At least you’d know,” Sam finishes. “Yeah.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“It’s like my brain may or may not be a ticking bomb. No way of knowing what’s hiding up there,” Spencer bites out, with a warped attempt at a laugh. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam can’t help but think of his flashback: coming back to reality with Dean pale and wide-eyed above him, the disorientation of feeling the solid floor under his back, the way his skin still burned. It felt so real. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>He pushes those thoughts away. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Like you can’t even trust yourself,” Sam says softly. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Exactly.” Spencer’s voice is small and thin, and he sounds very young, suddenly. “My mom’s counting on me. What if… if something happened - I don’t know who would take care of her. Of us.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Your family,” Sam says, without hesitating. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“My team? Yeah, I… I guess so.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Your family,” Sam repeats. “Even if you can’t trust yourself, you’ll be able to trust your family.” </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p><em>Sa</em>m’s heart leaps at the sound of the door opening again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“They’re going to St. Louis,” he says, all in a rush, before the stern-faced agent from earlier can even sit down. The guy doesn’t bat an eye, just sits down calmly, pinning Sam with a stare that could strip paint. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sam, I’m Supervisory Special  Agent Aaron Hotchner.” Sam’s heard Spencer talk about “Hotch,” and it all makes sense now. “What makes you think St Louis is next?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“They’re retracing our steps,” Sam answers. “Dean and I, when we started working together. They’re hitting each town we stopped in. Jericho, Black Water Ridge, Manitoc. St. Louis is next.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam holds his breath, hoping he won’t be pressed on his definition of <em>working</em>. He can see the moment Hotch comes to a decision with an infinitesimal nod. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“We’re too late,” he says. “We just got the news.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Shit,” Sam can’t help but mutter, and he tugs instinctively at the handcuffs, frustrated, done with sitting still. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“This means you’re innocent,” Hotch points out, clearly watching Sam’s reaction. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam can’t help but roll his eyes. “Yeah, but I already knew that. It’s… Iowa next, then. Ankeny, Iowa.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Very well,” Hotch says flatly, giving Sam a critical, evaluating look. “It’s very clear that you’re not what we thought you were, and you may be able to help us end this. Are you still interested in accompanying us?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes,” Sam replies impatiently. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“First, I’m going to give you one last chance to tell me the truth about what’s going on here,” Hotch says, in such a low, dangerous voice that Sam’s almost intimidated. “Otherwise, if one of my agents gets hurt because you withheld information, or if there’s even a hint that you’re leading us into a trap, I will shoot you without hesitation. Do I make myself clear?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jesus. But if the FBI can help him get to Iowa in time, with enough firepower to put a dent in the Leviathans, this’ll all be worth it. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam leans forward, as much as his cuffs will allow, meeting Hotch’s impenetrable glare with a determined stare of his own. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Look, I could tell you more, but you’re not going to believe some of it until you see for yourself,” he snaps. “So as far as I’m concerned, the only truth that <em>matters</em> is this: people are dying, and we both want to put a stop to it. Now, are you going to waste time asking for irrelevant details, or are you going to choose to trust me?”  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Hotch holds his gaze for a moment before nodding tersely. “Let’s get going, then. I’ll go get the keys.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He gets up and Sam grimaces at his retreating back, twisting his wrist uncomfortably to get the bobby pin at the right angle. Then the cuffs fall to the ground with a metallic clatter, and Hotch looks back at him in disbelief. Sam smiles at him, equal parts sheepish and smug. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I told you, full cooperation,” he explains, and Hotch shakes his head like he might just be a tiny bit impressed. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The rest of the team is waiting out in the hallway, some looking skeptical (tall, dark, handsome, <em>eyebrows</em>; Morgan, if Sam's guessing right), others nervous (pink pom-poms in her hair; that’ll be Penelope), but almost all with some degree of confusion written across their faces. Sam can’t exactly blame them. Spencer’s staring at his shoes, avoiding eye contact. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They’re a very clean, professional-looking bunch, and it’s making Sam incredibly uncomfortable, even aside from the obvious awkwardness inherent in the situation. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m Sam,” he blurts out, and then winces. “Um. You knew that.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yep,” Penelope squeaks. “This is weird.”  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan, David Rossi,” Hotch says brusquely, pointing to each in turn. “Jennfer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, and you know Spencer. There’ll be time to talk more on the jet. Everyone, grab your things, meet outside in five.” He’s already pulling out a cell phone and striding away as the team scatters, and Sam feels sort of windswept in his wake; the guy’s <em>intense</em>.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam and Spencer are alone in the hallway. Sam’s stomach twists. This is familiar. This is another person he’s let down, and the bitter voice in the back of his head whispering <em>you fucked up again</em> is familiar too. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m sorry,” Sam blurts out. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but… I’m sorry.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer looks up at him with a quizzical frown, head tilted. “I was going to apologize to you.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam blinks. “Why?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer presses his lips together in a funny little grimace. Sam had forgotten that face, the weird things he does with his mouth when he’s not sure what to say.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“For not trusting you.” His voice is scratchy and uneven and honest, now that there isn’t any anger keeping it strong and sure. “I wanted to believe that you… that it couldn’t be you. When I saw the first video, that was my instinct. But my instincts haven’t been great, lately.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam shakes his head. “No, you have nothing to apologize for.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think maybe I don’t trust myself right now?” Spencer barrels on. “But there’s video, and... I trust Hotch. If Hotch believes you... yeah. I’m sorry.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam’s not used to being forgiven so easily. It takes him a moment to remember how to speak. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You gave me a chance,” he says. “Most people wouldn’t have even picked up the phone. And there’s still… I still haven’t told you everything, why would you -”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There are a lot of things going on that I don’t understand, and I want answers, don’t get me wrong.” Spencer looks frustrated for a moment. “But… knowing that you’re not a murderer goes a long way. The details can wait.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“When I start sharing details is when most people start running in the opposite direction,” Sam admits. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think that’s sort of a universal human experience,” Spencer offers. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh, now. “Or at least, the fear is. Nobody likes telling the full truth. It’s uncomfortable at best, painful at worst.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam huffs out a laugh and swipes a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay. Got me there.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’ll trust that you’re not lying if you trust that I won’t run,” Spencer says, and he’s not smiling now. He’s dead serious, determined, maybe a little scared. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay,” Sam says hoarsely. “Deal.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s an awkward moment where they both just look at each other, but then Spencer jerks his head in the direction of the front doors. “C’mon, we should go.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam nods and lets him lead the way. “Should we - do you know where my phone is? I need to call my brother.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Garcia will have it.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They walk out into the bullpen, where the team is bustling around, collecting their things, and Sam’s reminded again of how much they’re risking on his word. It’s overwhelming. His throat feels too tight. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“So, that handcuff thing,” says Rossi, tossing his bag over his shoulder and falling into step next to Sam. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam laughs. “Yeah, I can teach you. It’s just a bobby pin.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Might help next time I get kidnapped,” Spencer says, with alarming nonchalance. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Would’ve come in handy a few times during college,” Rossi comments. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You mean as a party trick?” Spencer asks him. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah. Sure, kid. A party trick.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“...oh.” </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>November 2010 </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>“Spencer?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I… is that you?” Spencer asks, so shocked he feels dizzy. It’s been six months. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Spencer’s first thought had been, ‘Weird, that's the second “just in case” call in a month,’</em> <em>when he got the voicemail. He’d almost laughed.  </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Spencer had called Sam from the hospital, though, after the anthrax thing, when the antidote worked and he woke up. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam never called. Spencer assumed he never woke up. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“It’s me,” Sam says. “I’m so sorry, I -” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“What happened?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I was… sick,” Sam stammers. “Really… really sick. I’m sorry.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Spencer has to pause for a moment to digest that. His head is spinning. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“What -” he starts, but he cuts himself off. He has some idea of what kind of sickness might cause someone to go away for six months, and it’s not physical. “Oh,” he says softly. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Sorry,” Sam says again. He sounds miserable. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“No, don’t apologize,” Spencer protests. “You shouldn’t - it’s not your fault. I’m just glad you’re okay. I thought…” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>All Spencer can say is, “I’m really glad you’re alive.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Me too,” Sam says quietly. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Spencer’s been wanting to talk to him for six months, but now he can’t think of anything to say. Eventually he just goes with the first thing that comes into his head: “You missed some really good episodes of Doctor Who.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam laughs. “Yeah, I’ve got some catching up to do.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Spencer closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe. He’s never been so happy to be wrong. </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Emily says flatly, as Spencer brandishes the Super Soaker in her direction. “Of all the stupid fucking ideas.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yup,” he says, popping the p and maybe kinda enjoying the way her eyes have gone all buggy. In a low voice, he adds, “Play along, remember?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She casts a glance over to where Sam is busying himself with the rest of the water guns and a box of Borax. “As long as he doesn’t try to take my fucking Glock.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Nobody is taking your Glock, Emily,” Spencer says dryly. She shakes her head and goes over to join Morgan, Hotch, and JJ, who have already been outfitted and are standing at the other side of the parking lot. Garcia is sneakily taking a picture of them. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Admittedly, when Sam insisted that they make an emergency stop between the airstrip and the police precinct, Spencer wasn’t expecting Toys R Us, but he was also pretty gobsmacked when Sam started talking about <em>monsters</em>. He’d waited until they were in the jet to do so, which was probably a smart move. This isn’t the first time they’ve played along with a delusion in order to get answers, but it’s definitely the strangest. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Funniest, also. Spencer hopes Garcia got a <em>lot</em> of pictures. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam will definitely be headed to an institution, when all of this is over, and Spencer’s having trouble processing that, but… well, it’s not like Spencer’s unfamiliar with that sort of facility. Spencer’s just glad Sam’s not a murderer, and he’s ready to get Dean, arrest whoever’s framing them, and get some answers. He can deal with the rest later; there’s only so much he can handle right now. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s been a weird day. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay, we’re ready,” Sam announces, passing the last Super Soaker to Spencer. “Bobby didn’t know where they’re keeping Dean, but I’m guessing the cells. I’ll lead the way. Don’t trust <em>anyone</em>, we have to assume the local cops are Leviathans, at this point. Stick together, don’t let them touch you. Clear?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And I’ll be right here with the emergency radio,” Garcia chimes in cheerily. “Thank God.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam tucks his own water gun into the back of his jeans, hefting the fire axe he’d somehow stolen from the cockpit of the jet without anyone noticing. “Let’s go,” he says authoritatively. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“We’re right behind you,” JJ says, in her warmest, most soothing “placate the crazy man” voice.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam leads them around the corner and through the front door of the station, easing the door open without a sound, and they follow, entering the oddly quiet precinct quickly and efficiently. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer can see his teammates starting to draw their real weapons; luckily, Sam’s too focused on what’s in front of him to notice what everyone is doing behind him. Spencer hooks a finger on the Super Soaker and lets it dangle from his left hand, drawing his gun with his right, and most of the team is doing the same, for the sake of appearances. Emily and Morgan just set their water guns on the floor. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Dean?” Sam calls out. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sammy!” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dean walks jauntily out into the bullpen like it’s a very normal thing to find a team of federal agents aiming their guns at him, but he does a double take, disconcerted, frowning for a moment at all the neon plastic toys on display. Then he recovers and turns a wide grin on Sam, who’s hanging back, wary. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You brought backup,” Dean says, laughing. “Good, I’m hungry. I’m very glad you made it.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’re not Dean,” Sam says, low and certain. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No, I am not,” the man says, almost gleeful. “Close enough, though! I have all his memories, and I wanted to chat for a moment, before I eat you. I like my meat a little bitter.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What the almighty shitfire,” Emily breathes, but neither Sam or Dean pay any attention to her. Spencer has a hysterical urge to laugh, but he swallows it, heart pounding, not daring to look away from the insanity that’s unfolding in front of them. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Dean thinks you’re nuts, you know.” The man’s eyes flick behind Sam, taking in the team fanned out behind him. “So do your new friends.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam reaches behind his back to grab the handle of his water gun, but he holds it out of sight, still. Spencer keeps his finger firmly on the trigger of his real gun.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Where’s my brother?” Sam snaps. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay, okay, I’ll get to the point.” He’s wearing a smug, nasty smile, and this isn’t going the way Spencer expected at <em>all</em>. “Dean killed Amy.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam seems frozen, completely paralyzed. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There it is,” the man who isn’t Dean says, laughing. “Now I can eat you.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam draws his water gun so quickly it’s just a blur of neon orange, and then the man (<em>thing</em>, Spencer corrects himself frantically) is <em>smoking</em>. He’s smoking and sizzling wherever the water touches, and he’s screaming, looking just as stunned as Spencer feels in the split-second before Sam swings the fire axe and chops off his head with one powerful blow. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s a moment where everything seems to slow down, like Spencer’s moving underwater, as he takes in the black goo pouring from the stump where the creature’s head used to be. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What in the almighty motherfucking <em>shitfire</em>,” Emily says again, into the momentary silence. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“More incoming,” Sam snaps. “Heads up.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Then everything speeds up, too fast for Spencer to process, and it all blurs together: he’s holstering his gun, spraying water at something that’s wearing Sam’s face, as someone screams. Glass shatters, somewhere. Out of the corner of his eye Spencer sees Morgan pulling the station’s fire axe out of its case, whirling around without hesitation in a spray of black goo, and he keeps getting caught in the water pistol jets but it’s better than all those goddamn <em>teeth</em>, what the <em>hell</em>, in the <em>massive mouth</em> that just <em>appeared</em>, so he shoots, <em>what</em>, how, and then - </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And then it’s over as suddenly as it began. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s over. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer’s heart is racing. He’s surrounded by puddles of water and puddles of oozing black, Morgan’s clutching an axe like it’s a life raft, and everyone is okay. Spencer looks around frantically, double-checking, but everyone is okay; they’re still standing, at least, although JJ, greenish-pale, looks like she’s seconds away from keeling over in shock. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Back here, Sammy!” comes a muffled voice from the back of the station. Sam casually wipes the blade of his axe on the side of his pants, expression unreadable. Spencer watches him clench his jaw and take a deep breath. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Sweet baby Jesus,” Rossi mumbles. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam’s face is blank as he looks around, taking in the mess and the team. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I told you so,” he says mildly. Then he steps over the headless remains of a monster and goes to get his brother. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>November 2009</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>He doesn’t bother trying to go back to sleep after the second nightmare. He goes outside instead, sits on the curb in the parking lot, looks up. The stars are barely visible with the Vegas light pollution, but it still helps to be outside. He can breathe a little easier. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>There’s this tightly-knotted mess of rage in his chest, sitting on his ribcage like a tumor, poisoning him slowly. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>It’s almost four in the morning, and he has no idea where Sam might be, or what time it is there. He takes out his phone anyway and fires off a text. </em>
  </p>
</div><blockquote class="">
  <p>
    <em>You awake? </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>The phone rings less than a minute later. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“What’s up?” Sam asks. He doesn’t sound like he was sleeping. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I’m in Vegas,” Spencer says softly, and then realizes that doesn’t mean anything to Sam. “It’s where I grew up.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Win big on the slot machines?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“I guess. I won two thousand dollars today, actually. I… I gave it to a prostitute,” Spencer admits. He adds hastily, “Not for sex.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Sam laughs. “Right.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>There’s a moment of silence. Spencer could make small talk, now; he could pretend he called for no reason in particular. Sam wouldn’t believe him, but he wouldn’t question it, either. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>He takes a deep breath and spits the words out fast, before he can regret letting them loose. “Apparently my dad lived really close by my entire life, even after he left my mom and me. I didn’t know. He never told me.”</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Shit,” Sam says. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“He was keeping tabs on me my whole life,” he says. His voice gives him away, breaking and rasping, and it hurts to keep forcing the words out. “He read all my articles, my dissertation, everything I ever had published. My friends seem to think I should be happy about that.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“That’s bull,” Sam says firmly. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Why wasn’t it enough?” Spencer whispers. He’s been holding that question in all day, and it’s been choking him. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>His lower lip is wobbling. He’s glad Sam can’t see him. This is the sort of honesty that’s much easier from a distance; Sam might hang up right now, but at least Spencer won’t have to watch him walk away. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Do you think they know?” Sam asks. “How badly they messed us up, I mean.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>“Do you think they </em> <strong> <em>care</em> </strong> <em>?” It comes out more bitter than he intended. Spencer makes a face and looks down at his feet in their mismatched socks. “I think that’s the important part. If he cared, I could probably forgive him, but… I don’t think he does. Not really.” </em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Yeah.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Spencer takes a breath. The anger is gone now. He doesn’t like how hollow he feels in its wake, but he does feel lighter. He feels better. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Thanks for listening,” he says. “It helps.”</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>There’s a long pause, and Spencer thinks maybe he should hang up, now, try to rest even if he can’t sleep. </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Want to hear a joke?” Sam asks. “I tried to tell Dean, but... I don’t think he got it.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Sure.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“How many existentialists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“How many?” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>“Two. One to change the light bulb and one to to observe how it symbolizes an incandescent beacon of subjectivity in a netherworld of cosmic nothingness.” </em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>Spencer laughs, grinning up at the stars. “That’s good. I’m gonna steal that.” </em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>Sam sighs as he closes the door of the precinct behind himself. They’re not totally done with cleanup, but all Hotch’s wild-eyed muttering about paperwork is starting to make him anxious. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Also, every time he looks at Dean, he feels sick. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He sits down on the bench that’s out front, under a little awning. The sky is dark with clouds, and the air is thick, threatening rain, so humid it seems hard to breathe… but maybe that’s the shock setting in. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He barely gets a minute of peace before Dean comes out to find him. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey,” Dean says cheerfully. “Ready to go? I’m starving, and I don’t want to be here when that bunch starts asking questions. Pretty cool, though, having an in with the FBI. Definitely makes life easier, bein’ dead again.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s standing there on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, grinning like it’s just another day. Sam’s chest hurts. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Don’t,” he says quietly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What’s up?” Dean asks, frowning. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You killed Amy,” Sam says, and he watches Dean’s face as he realizes, the way he shifts his weight uncomfortably. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Listen, Sam...” he says.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No, you know what, don’t,” Sam spits. He knows the drill. Dean thought he was doing the right thing, he made a choice, he had to take responsibility if Sam couldn’t. Sam looks at his feet and says, “I don’t think I can be around you right now.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“So… what, you -” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You should go,” Sam says. He looks up and searches Dean’s face for some sign of guilt, remorse, <em>empathy</em>, but Dean just looks resigned. Sam wishes he would just start screaming, or throw a punch so Sam could hit him back. It’s not <em>fair</em> that Sam’s the only one in pain right now. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Okay, Sam,” Dean says, and he turns to go. Sam watches him walk away. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s not sure how long he sits on the bench, watching people pass. The sky is getting darker by the minute. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer doesn’t announce his presence when he comes outside, just sits on the bench next to Sam and waits quietly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He killed my friend,” Sam mumbles, without looking at him. “She was a monster, but she didn’t… she didn’t mean to. She didn’t want to hurt anybody.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Let me guess, he thought he was doing the right thing?” Spencer says wryly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The lack of pity in his voice makes it easier for Sam to keep talking, and sarcasm feels better than grief. “Shocking, right?” he says. There’s a low rumble of thunder overhead, and they both look up at the sky. “I didn’t have many friends, but… I liked her.” The grief seems to be creeping in whether he wants it or not. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m sorry.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Thanks.” Sam’s throat feels tight. “He’s my brother, I just… I’ve fucked up in the past, I know I have. But I always feel like I have to earn his forgiveness. It feels like I’m always asking him to give me another chance, to trust me again, and… and he still doesn’t really look at me the same way. Then he pulls something like this, and I know, one way or the other, he just doesn’t trust me. He thinks it’s okay to lie to me, because I don’t deserve the truth.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer doesn’t say anything, just makes an unhappy, understanding sort of sound. The first fat raindrops start to fall on the concrete in front of them, and they’re both quiet for a moment. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam smiles in spite of himself, remembering. “She changed her name, since I met her. Her name was always Amy, but she changed her last name to Pond.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Cool,” Spencer says. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah. I mean, no, she wasn’t <em>cool</em>, neither of us were, but… yeah.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam can breathe a little easier, now. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What are you going to do?” Spencer asks. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam looks sideways at him and sees the way his mouth is twitching. “Don’t.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Nothing you <em>can</em> do, is what I seem to remember you saying,” Spencer says innocently. “Give it time. Right? Does that make you feel any better?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam laughs, burying his face in his hands. “That was fucking <em>useless</em>advice. Fuck, don’t ever listen to me.” He wipes his eyes. “This just sucks.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah, it really does,” Spencer agrees. It’s pouring steadily now, rain streaming off the sides of their little awning. “Apparently Hotch thinks I should run away from my problems for a little while, give myself time to process, so I’ve been ordered to take a couple days off.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“JJ, still?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah. I think maybe he’s right. But… I was going to rent a car and drive back to DC, instead of taking the jet. Make a couple detours. Get some space. Give it time. You could come, if you want.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam turns to him, surprised, but Spencer looks sincere; he’s giving Sam one of his trademark anxious not-quite-smiles. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I was just going to hotwire a car,” Sam blurts out, and then winces. “That might be a better idea.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I guess you probably have some questions,” Sam says reluctantly. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer grins. “Harder for me to run away if we’re in a moving vehicle, right?” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam laughs, tucking his hair behind his ears. “Yeah, guess so.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“After today, I’m not actually sure I <em>want</em> to know all the details,” Spencer says, wrinkling his nose. “But I do have some questions.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Anything you want to know,” Sam promises. “The truth. I promise. I should’ve… I should’ve told you sooner.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Spencer shrugs. “No, I’m pretty sure you were right, I would’ve run away screaming.” </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sam laughs and rolls his eyes, and they sit there in silence for a moment, watching the rain start to slow. The clouds are already starting to blow over. </p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>-</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <strong>“Never tell the truth to people who are not worthy of it.” </strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>― Mark Twain</strong>
  </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You can also find the <a href="https://there-must-be-a-lock.tumblr.com/post/629105326846787584">series masterpost on tumblr</a>. I would love to hear from you over there as well! </p><p>Thanks for reading.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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